A search for serendipity
by unnafraher
Summary: Chrom waits; the world goes on. Though he has been told that Robin is still of this world, how is he supposed to know where and when to find her? -Spoilers for the end of Awakening -A story in four parts. Complete w/ epilogue-
1. i & ii

AN: This one is for Chrom. :( Bless his exalted heart—I got to thinking about it, and I realised that after the events of the game and before Robin's return, he must have had something of a hard time. Older!Lucina leaves him, Lissa leaves him, Emmeryn (if she is recovered using Spotpass) leaves him, Owain leaves him, and Morgan may potentially leave him too. I know he has all his friends. But that's his family that's leaving, and Chrom is such a family man.

As ever, feedback and criticism are appreciated and highly valued!

And happy (belated) St. Patty's day to those of you who celebrate it!

* * *

I.

Lucina broaches her plans on a brisk autumn day. The sun hangs white and blank in a uniformly blue sky. This day is not much colder than the previous days of this week, but the wind today is biting. It doesn't seem to hold any promise.

Chrom could pretend he hadn't heard her. He could buy himself some precious time to grasp and recover the sense that he sees quickly spiralling away from him. And he could fight the clammy feeling that's rising from the centre of his palms up through his arms; he could hide his stretching as a movement to bring himself closer to her. His swordarm is resting in its sling, and that hand twitches beneath his tattered white, blue-lined cape. (When he has been going for walks he has always donned the same outfit he had worn that day when he met her. These have been dubbed his searching clothes by several of the court's more sardonic members. He changes into them as he would prepare for a royal hunt.)

Lucina is looking at him. There is in her expression what he understands to be vulnerability. He reads it in the slight tilt of her head, her looking up at him through the rim of her lashes. She's an unsure daughter looking for her father's approval—his blessing that he could confer or withhold.

But he could never disappoint her. He smiles at her, he says along with an expansive gesture of his hand, "My darling, congratulations! Of course you may go to Wyvern Valley with Gerome."

She beams at him. "Oh thank you, Father."

"I must admit I never thought I'd have to see you off so soon...But you are your own person. And this time I've had with you—every moment of it has been a gift. You have been a valuable friend, and you will always be my irreplaceable daughter. You will always have a home here, and you will always have a father who loves you."

"Oh, I'm not leaving immediately you know," she says, and there's a slight pause that holds a staggering depth of meaning. _Not yet, but soon, soon, _Chrom senses. "Gerome would like to get married in Ylisse before we leave. Cherche asked for us to do as much, and I couldn't have a ceremony without having Morgan or you."

Her head's slightly cocked when she smiles, and her femininity renders him lost once more. He is this woman's father, of course, but he wasn't given _time_ to adjust to this kind of thing. There was no growth spurt, it just happened. Her sudden maturing in this way was unanticipated. Here she is, a lady, and how is he to relate to her? Luckily, she isn't expecting much from him. Him just doing his best—whether he fails or not—is just fine by her. As long as he's alive, he's doing enough. How simple is that, how could he ever refuse her?

Then she takes him by his arm—his naked arm, the one with the mark of Naga and the one that's becoming numb on this blustery day. Though he isn't buffeted enough to be chilled, he appreciates the contact, and he remarks to himself that Lucina has become more tactile. She has even become more than generous with her hugs, much to her younger brother's repeatedly spoken delight.

Chrom presently leans into his daughter's warmth. The blue scarf bundled around her neck and shoulders tickles at his upper arm. They resume walking along the lane back towards the castle.

"You've grown up too quickly, my little girl. I haven't even had time to think of a good wedding gift for you."

"Father, you needn't bother. ...You know that kind of thing doesn't mean anything. Not to me."

"Nonsense," Chrom says. They are still walking, but he slows for a titch to cast a glance around him. He doesn't really realise what he's doing, that he's still_ looking_ even now. He thinks that he's taken a moment to breathe. "Your mother wouldn't forgive me if she found out I didn't get you something from the both of us. If you love me, you won't try to talk me out of it."

Lucina laughs at that. It's a comely sound, and the way she brings her hand to her mouth makes his heart beat up-tempo. "I shall allow you to do your duty, Father."

"Thank you," he says, and though he grins at her, there's a sudden maudlin mood that settles upon him. It's light and undefined, originating from somewhere in the space within chest. There are many things that he's thinking of—changes, missed opportunities, unaccountable nostalgia, wind-numbed ears. He looks around them and he sees the ambitiously celebratory colours of autumn: yellows, oranges, purples, golds, all of it in preparation for death. It will be a temporary death, but it is still a going away, a parting for some time. There is distance here.

He longs for the winsome laugh of his little Lucina who is just learning to walk. He longs for the pretty smile of his older Lucina who is just becoming an adult. The dichotomy sets his conscious aching: firsts and toys and gurgles, against smiles and gestures and whispers. He has seen the way Lucina positions herself around Gerome. He has never heard those three words spoken between them, but they are obvious in the way that she rests her eyes on Gerome when he's near. There is also the way that a part of her presence always gravitates towards him, even when he _isn't_ near.

Which is fine by him, really. He understands that this is all part of a natural process. Though there were never any parents he had to prove and justify his own love to, there had been a kingdom and Lissa, who had been what remained of his family but not a matriarch. If Emmeryn had been alive she would have been the closest thing to a maternal figure whose blessing and acceptance he would have had to have sought. But surely she wouldn't have said no. She wouldn't have held any reservations when she saw how happy his wife had made him. (There was also the fact that Robin was a good match for the kingdom. Her obscure origins would have meant nothing to his older sister.)

Lucina parts herself from him then to rearrange her scarf with a few deft movements. It has been blown out of place by the wind that is also tugging at a part of his cape, as it blows another part against his broad back. He moves to shelter Lucina from the wind. His silver pauldron glints in the sun as he turns. It's not much that he's providing her with, but it gives him a raise of paternal pride that overcomes his indistinct sadness for a moment. He comes to a better place.

She smiles at him.

Then the small reprieve is over. She and he resume walking. Side by side for the moment, but that's even now coming to an end. Soon they will be closer to her departure.

By letting her go, why must he be losing a part of himself? And why does it make him feel so old?

They are within sight of the castle when he spots a hawk perched on the uppermost branches of a shedding tree. The thin branches are white and stark and gnarled, and they wave in the wind. The brown bird rides on one of them above the showers of colourful, dying leafs below.

Chrom doesn't think that the bird will notice him. Hopes it won't actually, because then he can observe it longer. For a moment, though, the hawk looks his way and his world shrinks down to the gaze he is sharing with the creature.

Abruptly, he is on the cusp of something. But there is no time, no way, to ask questions. Whatever he decides, he knows that things shall come pass. His impact can only be on the details. And he is on his own in this; he can't remember the last time that this was so.

Then the hawk is flying out of the tree, flying up in the air, diving down and out of sight. He cannot follow it with his eyes so it vanishes.

_So be it, _Chrom thinks to himself.

When they arrive at the castle they part ways until dinner. She departs to the left to prepare for training. He has an audience in a few minutes, but he takes the time to stay behind and watch her walk away. As she turns a corner, he lightly places a hand over his chest. He breathes deeply.

II.

Lucina and Gerome are married two weeks later. The ceremony's held in the castle's own chapel, and there is a young choir to sing and state officials in attendance, but overall the affair is small. Their friends can be raucously roving and violently vivacious, but here they are subdued, with a sense about them that they are not quite comfortable standing on the brink of the rest of their lives. This event so clearly confronts them with the fact that they need to come up with something soon.

There is a dreamy, if slightly uneasy, air throughout the ceremony. Because of the early hour of the morning, the chapel is well-lit and flooded by warm pools of light where normally there would be gloom and chilly reserves of shadows. This detail will later be remembered by Chrom as a certain luminosity, and this luminosity will pervade all the details of his future recollections of the event—the rising voices of the children, the gleaming polished wood of the pews, the toothy smile of Morgan as he sits in the second row back, the taffeta of the women's gowns.

Even Lucina, whom he leads arm in arm down the aisle, seems to be glowing. He will remember her as absolutely serene. Currently she is looking forward as they approach the aisle. Her gaze seems fixed, but she is not yet gone ahead. There's still time to say something to her—he's sure that he should. He will be giving her something forever, for there is an overwhelming sense that this is the last time they will speak in private.

He glances forward, and he sees Gerome dressed almost completely in black. Even his hair appears darker than it really is.

Chrom whispers to her, "My darling, you look so beautiful. You are no longer completely mine but I am so proud."

She says, "I love you, Daddy."

"I love you," he says, and here it is it that they part. She takes the last steps by herself. Together, she and Gerome kneel before the bishop who stands purposefully at the alter. In his vestments he would normally outdo them, but today he cannot compete with their shimmering air of young fulfilment.

The next thing Chrom is cognisant of is Morgan tugging on his doublet's sleeve. His son's looking up at him.

"Father, are you going to go to the brunch? I want to, but I don't know if I can keep anything down. Lucy's so happy, she's making me a little nauseous!"

Chrom frowns at him, and then he laughs. "Leave your sister alone. Today's her day, not yours. You better put any plans for attracting attention to rest."

"Nah," Morgan says. "I wouldn't take that away from her! Besides, I don't want to risk getting speared by Falchion. Or getting eaten by Minerva."

"I bet you'd make quite a tasty wyvern snack," Chrom teases, and Morgan laughs.

"No way! I'm so small I'm not worth eating."

"That won't matter if you give them reason," Chrom says.

Morgan agrees, and after that they catch up to the brunch crowd. The meal wares on into the afternoon as speeches are made. In particular Cherche makes a gallant toast and, by the time she's done relating the wartime antics of the two Minervas and her already-adult son, the shadows have shifted. Inigo shares a tale of the misadventure of the drunk maiden who couldn't discern the difference between Gerome and Minerva. The punchline—and he gets to it quicker than he normally would, spurred on by the glare that Lucina delivers from across the grand dining hall—is that she especially couldn't tell the difference between the two Minervas, either. In fact she had thought that she was seeing double before passing out in the tent—Inigo's tent, of course. Gerome's red by the end of it, but Lucina leans to him and puts her hand on top of his. Chrom recognises that gesture even from a distance—there is forgiveness in it, as well as comfort, and she understands that it is _not_ his fault. So let it go, I already have.

Chrom shifts in his seat. He looks to Morgan who's talking with the half-manakete girl. He watches them for a few moments. Morgan looks up and sees his father and smiles at him.

Chrom smiles too, until Morgan returns to his conversation.

Then Chrom rests his gaze on the unoccupied chair beside him. The cushions are a regal blue, the top is emboldened by an intricate carving of the Ylissean state seal. The seat sits in reserve for his wife. It's silent, and there is a slight air of expectancy about its placement, but there's also a hint of exception—her presence would be welcomed, yes, but she shouldn't feel obliged to be here if she can't.

He wonders what the chances of her showing up are. Unconscious of his gesture, he settles a hand on his chest. He decides that they're not very good. But that does not detract from his present mood.

There's state business that Chrom has to attend in the evening, but he's there for the culmination of his daughter's day. Lucina will be departing with new her husband and parents-in-law in the morning, so this is the last time that she'll be seen in public. Him missing it would be unimaginable.

He's on his way to the marquee when he pauses. He is outside. He can feel the mossy stone of the footpath through his leather shoes, and there is a light breeze shifting tufts of his hair. There's a waft of dying grass and leafs, and the night's so mild it's hard to believe that the world is just on the brink of winter. The recent days have been warmer, a gift—it has been pleasant weather for his last few sparring sessions with his daughter. Sunny, but lacking that heat that draws copious amounts of moisture even when the body is at rest. The two of them had panted, but neither had ended with sweat-drenched backs.

Physically, Chrom is currently comfortable.

And yet he thinks, what does physical comfort have to do with contentedness? As he thinks he looks to the moon because it holds a special interest. The heavenly body is so low on the horizon it's still coloured a brilliant bloody orange. But it will soon rise, and then it will be pale, and then it will appear as it had on his own wedding night. At that time it had looked down on them, and it had been reflected in her eyes.

He and his wife had slipped away from their escort. After their ceremonial bedding, the group of important and influential people had left their chambers to congregate in the sumptuous sitting room right outside their doors. Despite the heavy, thick, solid wood, Chrom and Robin could hear the mutterings and stirrings.

They had been expected to undress each other. Then they were to attempt heir-making for the first time in their marital bed.

But she had had a plan. She had used a brilliant subterfuge, she had gotten them out through the window and down into the gardens. Fully clothed, they had taken off and laughed all the way.

The expanse of the castle grounds had been transformed by the night into somewhere unfamiliar. For without guards and torches, there were shades and shapes that not even he had seen before. The land was quiet but not silent—the sounds of animals and insects followed them from the base of the castle all the way to the maze they had then found themselves in. The verdure had been dark all around them, while her dress and hair had been cast white silver. The moon had not been bright that night—it had been a sickle moon that was occasionally darkened by scudding clouds.

But she had taken note of it as they sat down on the lip of an august fountain. It had been summer so the water had been running and there was a soft gurgle in the background. Cleaning had kept algae out of it, and flowering lily pads had drifted stately in it.

She had kissed him and he had kissed her back. She had tasted sweet and, faintly, of hazelnuts. Then she had nuzzled up against him and looked up to the sky. He had gazed down at her and the heavens had been reflected in the liquid loveliness of her eyes. In that light her eyes had appeared to him black.

She had asked, "Which constellation is Lady Naga again?"

"That one there."

He'd pointed somewhere to his left.

"And Grima has already set?"

"Yes. Grima sets just as Naga rises."

"Poetic," she had said, and she had sighed prettily. Then she kissed him again and they'd gotten carried away, they'd fallen into the fountain. He'd gone first and she'd followed right after.

Suddenly there had been a splashing struggle. He'd pulled himself away from her so that they couldn't keep each other under. When he'd surfaced, he'd found her floating. Her hands were settled on her chest and her lace veil bloomed around her. The heavily-detailed trim of it had remained submerged while the lighter parts drifted. If not for her blinking just then, she'd have been a flawless corpse.

He'd been enraptured by this vision.

He'd knelt in the water, and with a little coaxing she'd floated over his lap. He couldn't detect her life. Her torso had been a flat plane with a slightly silky sheen, but it hadn't been a smooth surface. And though her dress had appeared stretched over it, he'd known that it was structured. Sturdy like a shell, just as brittle too. And the luxuriance of the needlework on her stomacher had been a rich texture under his fingers. Folds of her veil stuck to her collarbones and his thighs; small wavelets disturbed portions of the lace. He'd removed his glove and laid his hand on the base of her neck. The water had disguised her warmth, but there'd been no mistaking it, under his fingers her life had been surging.

Then she'd smiled at him. She'd had the moon in her eyes.

"Robin, you're so beautiful," he'd whispered to his wife.

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."

"Aye, and I'm the beholder."

And that to him had been the proof of their transition to adulthood—nothings exchanged, but with profound, private meanings attached. He'd offered sincere flattery with an inquiry, and she'd accepted with an invitation, and neither of them had done any of it consciously. It just flowed.

That's a sure sign of maturity, Chrom thinks as he shuffles on his feet. There are levels of communication that are suddenly tapped—when you realise you can access them, it comes as a pleasing surprise. They cannot be accessed with effort, they are accessed with experience. So when he sees Lucina touching Gerome and there's such sure fondness there, he's once again convinced that they've been in love for a long time. Their lives may end up taking any number of turns in the future—at any moment everything could change—but for now their present situation is a logical conclusion. Chrom can't dispute this.

Nor does he. Instead he makes his way to the tent where their final celebration is being held, and he takes his seat by her. The one on his other side remains empty. Here there is a void, but no-one becomes lost in it. Everyone's taken by the sight of Lucina, who as ever is graceful and gracious. She has a grateful smile for all.

Then the night is almost over, they are at the penultimate dance. Gerome will dance with his wife for the last song, so Chrom is Lucina's partner for this one. Father and daughter come together. Smiling, neither of them think to say anything; Chrom has nothing left to give her. They move through the bright warm world for the length of the song, and this time and distance they've travelled will later be condescending into a singular memory of light. And, when the song is over, he leans over to kiss her forehead.

As she walks over to her husband, he notices that she had smelt of sandalwood. Her warmth lingers in his hands, on the tips of his fingers and the expanse of his palms. He places one of them on the centre of his chest.


	2. iii

AN: There's a combination of spoilers and fanon in this one, so have fun with that. It is a middle part so it's definitely more moody than the previous one. Also, the length is due to in-text letters; they read fairly quickly, so this isn't actually as long as it seems. Lucina may come across as more excursive than she normally is. That is the intended effect. Usually when people wrote letters in ye olde times they wrote in a long-winded way because it was a mark of superior education. Lucina was probably receiving a good education that was cut short by events, so that also explains why there are some colloquialisms in her writing.

Thank you so much for the support so far!

* * *

Chrom sits on the throne. To his right sits Morgan, the adolescent prince, and under the gaze of a vividly painted Naga, they hold audience. The throne room's dazzling in the afternoon sunlight. The polished stone of the floor and walls glow, and the courtiers coruscate in their rich baubles. One woman in particular—the widow of a duke who reigned not far outside of the capital—gives the impression of a gilded roach. Her gown's a gorgeous gold, but the thing's so structured, so stiff with décor, she appears to have an armoured back. Her headdress resembles antennae, and the set stones adorning it throw spattering of white speckles on those standing next to her.

Morgan, Chrom notices, seems to be constantly smiling. This is not something new. But it's something that he has tried to tell the boy must be changed soon. Or at least controlled. A prince is benevolent and good-natured, yes, but Morgan's smiling could be taken as simpering. His status can confer an air of superiority that he does not really have. Regal condescension is not what Chrom wants presented to his people.

There is also the possibility that Morgan is currently effervescing with mirth. He finds the pageantry of court amazing, if not at times benignly amusing. The perpetual feast of colours, sights, events is a source of joy to this inexhaustible boy. To Chrom this is staggering. Maybe he will get used to it eventually, but there is still something overwhelming about the lot of it. Chrom's not remotely an introvert, but these sessions, with the entire court present in all its resplendent grandeur, leave him enervated. Even now the fatigue has begun to brush at the more logical parts of his mind.

This is when Sumia catches his eye. Between presentations there's a lull filled by murmurs and rearrangements. Someone moves, and Sumia is revealed to his roaming attention. She's dressed in civilian clothes rather than her armour. This is a state of dress he has recently been seeing her in. She's still a pegasus knight, but she's distancing herself from that identity—it's not a closure, not really, but she's opening the next chapter of her life wherein she will be a pegasus breeder. Her brood will soon begin to increase munificently.

But her current clothing is even more poignant for its simplicity. There is a poetic plainness about it as she stands among these showy courtiers. Not as though she is blasé, but as though she has nothing to prove. Being herself costs her nothing. So she is presented as is—she is a pegasus expert, and today she's wearing a twilight lavender and off-white gown. The white of her dress is cream; it is several shades more yellow than pegasus down, and it is several shades brighter than the visible puffed sleeves of her chemise. Her only jewellery are the familiar pieces in her hair, though he's certain that her wedding band can be found on her hand.

He thinks that he will see it when she comes closer. He's aware that hers is the last of the day's entreaties.

So he waits.

Occasionally he glances over to her. Each time she seems to be engaged by the sight of her husband, Frederick, the captain of the guard who stands at attention not far from the base of the throne's raised dais As far as anyone can tell, Chrom's completely engaged by each citizen who comes up and kneels before him. But his thoughts drift. The efforts to tamp them down and keep them ordered is only an additional mental demand.

Finally, finally, it is Sumia's to approach him.

She parts from the crowd. She's smiling. She goes by Frederick, and in that moment she doesn't stop to look at him, but still there is something that passes between them then. It cackles in the atmosphere.

In that moment, Chrom wonders. She and he, her and him—there had been a chance for that. He wonders about what could have been. His life could have gone differently. Would it have been better? Would it have been quieter, more stressful, more fulfilling, or perhaps more involved? How would his life have looked just at this very moment? It's a notion that's so strong he has a physical yearning. There's a dry tightening in his throat, something as breathless and alarming as the possibilities of _if_. And though this sensation of his now has a physical dimension, he perceives it only as obliquely so—this is not about physical attraction he's, this is about his mind. Sometimes people think thoughts that they would rather not. Sometimes people have thoughts that scare them, because these are not the thoughts of the people whom they thought they were. It does happen.

Chrom has to fight his grimace, his rising shame. What is he doing, he demands of himself, and he can't let it go long enough to give himself the space to realise, _he hasn't done anything_. And yet his mind, his traitorous mind—how could it not be as simple and clean as his heart? How could some transient thoughts usurp his solid faith?

Why, even after everything, can he never manage the purity of his sister?

He doesn't know. He doesn't know how many people in this audience he has revealed himself to. But, with a jarring exhalation he disguises as a cough, he brings himself back to kilter.

Sumia is kneeling before him.

"Your Majesty," she says.

"Sumia. Please rise! There's no need to stand on ceremony with me. None of these others will deny me the pleasure of speaking with a good friend."

"Chrom," she says, and this time she speaks more lightly. "I'm here today to ask that you accept a gift from me—our family."

"Oh? And what is it you're giving me?"

"It's not for you, really. But, well, you're—I wish to give the Princess Lucina a pegasus. I know she is just a young thing yet, but so is this steed. She was born not longer after the princess was. But I'll have her properly trained and ready by the time the Princess Lucina is old enough to ride."

"Absolutely," Chrom says. "I could never refuse such a fine gift from a friend of the family. Of course you'll have to keep your promise and train her well, but I have faith that you'll manage that exceptionally."

He is gracious with his smile and honestly touched, but there's still a small twitching in his gut. There's a trace of iron in his mouth.

"If it ple—if you'd like to, you may see her now. She's a pretty little thing."

"I would be honoured. Why don't you have her brought to the courtyard. She and the princess can have a proper first meeting."

"That would be lovely, Chrom," Sumia says as she curtsies, and in her downward movement locks of her thick, glossy hair fall over her shoulders.

Once Sumia has resumed her place in the crowd, a clutch of guards exits the hall. They are followed by Morgan and Chrom, who gets up slow at first because his legs have fallen asleep. The rest of the court will disperse in their wake, and there will be momentary chaos until everyone has filtered out into the halls. So Chrom walks Morgan to his afternoon logic lessons. The part of the castle they go to is not far from the courtyard, adding only a few minutes onto Chrom's walk to his next meeting . Though of course a king is never late, everyone else is just early.

He has delivered Morgan to his tutor when a page finds him. Dressed in livery and speaking measuredly, the young boy gives utterly nothing about himself away. He has two small brown parchment parcels in his hand.

"There are two personal letters for you, Your Majesty. The courier arrived just over a quarter of an hour ago."

"Very good. Lovely day today, isn't it? It finally feels like spring." Chrom asks as he accepts the letters.

But the boy does not falter. "As you say, Your Majesty."

"You may go," Chrom answers, and he hopes that he did not come across as dismissive as he fears. There was a cheer he tried to force into his voice, but it was no match against that boy's front, it broke like such a weak wave.

Guiltily, Chrom slips the two letters into his doublet and does not forget them.

**. **

The pegasus is just as cute as Sumia claims. It helps, too, that it is in the presence of his tiny toddling daughter. Lucina's smitten with the animal—who is a she, the pegasus is a little girl too. Lucina babbles "pega pega" at the pegasus as she is being touched and petted. The winged horse then nuzzles into Lucina, despite the girl's eager attempts to engulf her in an embrace.

Then the pegasus rolls over onto her back and Lucina follows suit. Her simple white headdress falls off and ends up crushed underneath her, and her kicking legs ruck her glen green dress up to her knees. Lucina gets grass stains.

The sight of these two precious things absorbs him.

He is still in the company of Sumia, but the storm of his thoughts has quelled and there is nothing but smooth sailing. It is a sunny spring day. And when Lucina shrieks once, it is a shriek of delight as her horse licks her fingers with a long pink-purple tongue.

**.**

The duration of days has grown longer. This is why there's still sunlight filtering into the chapel, when Chrom finds his way there after dinner. It's not terribly bright, but there is light. The chaplain is only just now lighting candles for the first watch of the evening.

Chrom procures one of these candles for his own use. He knows that his task is going to take more time than the sun has left. He sits down in a pew towards front-left, and he pulls his letters out. He regards them. There is one he decides will be easier to tackle, better to read first.

It is from Lucina.

_Dear Father, _

_ I hope that these words find you in good health. In answer to your inquiry, I would like to report that everything is absolutely wonderful with me. Cherche is still glowing about the match, and recently she has convinced Gregor to get a handle on his life. He has eliminated most of his vices. She told him to look to their son as a role model. He laughed at that, but I think he took it seriously and it made quite an impression. Our honeymoon was splendid. I write 'our' because when I found the money you had slipped into my saddle satchel I wanted to send it back immediately. I turned quite red! But then Gerome found out what I intended, and he made the point that it was not 'my' money but ours, because surely you intended for it to be used by the both of us. Hence, 'our.' But I digress. Thank you so very much for that. _

_ I was not expecting to have a correspondence with you. Do not think this means that I am not happy to! Very much is the opposite true. I am so pleased that I feel like I owe you a certain debt of gratitude. I know that you would say that I don't. The idea that I owe you anything will in fact most likely cause you to be uncomfortable, and the last thing I want to do is cause you even a single shred of anguish. So please rest easy. I am thanking you, but I am also promising you I will not suffer from any feelings of indebtedness. _

_ I actually have a small tale to relate to you which you may find of interest. The day before I received your letter, I found my pendant. I do not know if **your** Lucina has one yet, but this pendant is carved with a striking likeness of our mother. I do not know when it was wrought; I was gifted it when I was ten years of age, so for all I know it could have been as young as a few days or as old as me when I received it. Maybe even older; I don't know. I am sorry if this is an unhelpful or unnecessary detail. Anyway, this pendant is very important to me, but that is not what makes its recovery so meaningful. You see, I am very certain that I lost it in Ylisse. I wanted to wear it for my wedding but I could not find it then. I looked all over the castle (which I am very familiar with as you know) and I could not find it. I had Gerome and several others look for it too but they could not find it either. I had given up and the matter had mostly slipped my mind because of everything else going on. Nor did I want to think about this shameful oversight of mine that allowed me to lose it in the first place. _

_ But then I found it. I woke up, and there it was right by my face. The morning sun was streaming in and warming the world as I realised what I was seeing. It is currently around my neck as I write this. So this is something incredible that happened to me. Or at least I think it is incredible and worth writing down. Admittedly there is not much else to write about. So I will also put down that Gerome swears he was not the one who placed it there, and Cherche and Gregor were out the evening before. The only suspects left then who are not accounted for are the two Minervas and Mother. I am not sure who is the most outrageous suspect. Maybe you, with the rational perspective of a third party, can offer me a good explanation. _

_ Anyway, how is Morgan? I am not sure if I should keep another, separate correspondence with him. I am sure he is busy learning both new things about the world and old things about himself. He must have little time for his boring older sister. _

_ How are you? Falchion is fine. I make sure to polish the blade at least once a day, usually before the morning meal. I guess that is it for now. Once again, I hope that your health is holding up and that you are perfectly happy. It is spring, finally, so please do try and enjoy it. _

_With love and regards,_

_Lucina_

There are still traces of sunlight in the chapel when he stacks the pages of Lucina's letter and refolds them with a deal care. He goes over each of the three folds with his thumb and forefinger several times. Then he places this letter back in its envelope.

He looks at the other one, laying flat in the palm of his left hand.

He couldn't say why, but there's something profoundly meaningful about the quality of the handwriting on the front. The fact that Emmeryn's hand has remained as elegant, as concentrated, and as calm, is a detail that means something. She must be trying to communicate something to him. It doesn't matter if she knows or not. It could be coming from some nebulous recess of her mind, and even then it would be coming from _her. _

But, whatever it means, it's not something that he can figure out right now. After a time he breaks the seal and prepares to read whatever messages she _has_ intended to send him.

Behind him, someone else settles down.

_Dear Chrom_

_ Hello. Is this form of address acceptable? I do not mean to imply that you are dear to me though you certainly are. I appreciate very much everything that you did for me. I also know that you are trying your best to not expect anything from me despite how much it hurts you so I think that expecting any kind of familial obligation from you would be hypocritical. (Is that the correct spelling?)_

_ But this is not why I decided to write to you. I decided to write because I have discovered much to my relief I have retained some eloquency of written speech & other things. I know that I might not write as well as I did before (there are many things I do not or can not remember) but I also have some help so things do not end up too badly. The doctor said this is possible because there are different parts of the brain and these different parts are used to do different things. If you think about a bureau or a group of boxes it is like that. He said that things are—comp art compat—compartmentalised. It means that my head may be damaged in some areas but not others so I can do things like writing just fine. I do not understand it. When I try to speak I cannot understand the way that things flow like they do here. I am getting better but my speaking understanding is just not as developed. _

_ This is why I am writing you. I have a theory about why I am here and why my brain works just fine in some ways but is getting better in others. But in some ways it is not getting better at all and that is sad but maybe understandable. Do you remember Robin? That is a silly question is it not. I am sure you do. She is/was my sister-in-law and she was one of the only people who talked to me back when we were at war. I saw you so often. I cannot explain it but I often had two very strong feelings whenever I saw you. It felt like I was sad but also happy. Someone told me that is called __bittersweet but I think it is more that I felt I did not belong. I should not have been there and even now I should not be here even if I am happy that I am. I think that Robin felt the same and that this is one of the things that we had in common. Have in common. _

_ She told me about how she was connected to Grima. She said she was Grima but she was also the vessel of Grima so there was in any case a very deep connection there. She also told me that her father told her that Grima could heal her body no matter what she did to it. She said this was the reason why she was trapped for sure. Not even if she wanted to could she die. She also had a mark of Grima. Now as I understand it I also have a mark but this one is a Mark of Naga and it is on my forehead not my hand. You and your daughter and your son and Lissa's son also have one. That my mark is on my head does not mean anything to my theory. My theory is that it is Naga that is slowly making my head better in the ways that she can. She is healing me. The family—we—are the vessels of Naga. We have a special connection with her and I like to think that she takes a special interest in us because of our conven covenant. But there are things that she cannot do like give me back my memories because my memories are more than just my head. They are other people too who love or do not love me and people who care for me or maybe try to hurt me. The thing is that these are records of other people in my head. Naga cannot make them for me. Only I can make my memories. They are my own._

_This is what I was thinking yesterday. I also thought something else and this made me really want to write to you. I think that Naga really liked Robin or maybe Naga has a special interest in Robin because you love her so much. I know that Robin is not a vessel for Naga but that does not matter. What is important is that Naga cares about what happens to her. That means that Robin cannot die because Naga can just bring her back. Robin does not need Grima to heal her. So if you are sad about Robin just remember that Naga is doing her best. In the meantime there are still those unseen bonds that bind us._

_I think that this is a good thought. It really helped me because sometimes I start crying and I do not know why. Then I think about Robin and I think about how unfair all of it is. I also cry for you and Lissa who lost your older sister and for your children who lost their aunt. And now you all have memories of this great woman who you are always trying to live up to and you are always worried about what she would think of this or that. Maybe I do not have much to say because I cannot even remember who this woman was but I think that you are all doing a good job. You are all good people and you deserve to live your own life and not some life that you think a dead woman may have wanted for you. _

_But that is just what I think. _

_This is pretty long so I probably should just stop writing now. But there is one more thing. Please do not feel that you have to write me back if you are too sad. I do not want to make you sad. Also—and I guess that this is really two more things—maybe one day you and Lissa could visit. It does not have to be a family visit but rather a visit of friends. I know that Regna Ferox is a long way away for just a small visit for a king but maybe one day you will have the time. That would be nice. But again I want us to be realistic. _

_Well. I guess that is it._

_Your friend Emmeryn_

Getting this letter back into its envelop is much more of a challenge. After several minutes Chrom simply gives up and allows himself to slump. He has contained his shaking until now, but his tears have been streaming for a time. He can't remember when they started.

From behind him, Morgan says, "Father?"

Chrom doesn't know what to do. He doesn't want to turn around, not when he isn't sure whether he wants to or not, or what he wants to do at all. He settles on wiping his face. He yawns loudly, as though he might disguise his tears for anything else.

"Morgan. Why are you here?"

"Why are you here? And why are you crying?"

Chrom says, "That's not fair. I asked you first."

Morgan huffs a little. "I'm here because I'm trying to pray more to Naga. Nah said that Naga sometimes actually responds when you're praying. She doesn't answer the big ones of course—or most of the little ones that she gets from us humans. But I'd like to try anyway, because I'd really like to have a chat with her! But you're the one crying, Father."

"I was just moved by Lady Naga. She has blessed our family and our realm." Chrom means it, and he also smiles because he figures that it will satisfy Morgan. The boy will agree with him, of course, because he likes to consider himself as being both blessed and a blessing.

But Morgan says, "So you were reading a story about Naga?"

There's a beat.

"Yes, something like that. It's a very good story."

"Is it a true one? I like fiction," Morgan says, and despite knowing better he clambers over the back of his father's pew to sidle up to him, "but I like non-fiction way better. Or at least fiction based on true stories, because then they mean a lot more even if the writer messes up on some of the details. Like the sagas."

Morgan goes on for a few more moments about what he has learnt recently about the Lady Deirdre. This allows Chrom some time, in the dusk, to set down his candle and replace Emmeryn's letter into its crisp, weighty envelope (at least she is being well provided for, and the monthly allowance he sends her from the treasury must be reaching her). By now the chaplain has already lit the torches along the walls and the chandeliers above, so Chrom blows out his candle. He does not know yet if he will respond to Emmeryn—he has ideas, but what will he actually say? He wouldn't mind keeping in touch with her if she wants him to. And a visit. He could imagine it happening in the future—him and Morgan, and Lissa and Libra. Perhaps even Lucina and Gerome could join them before they set out from Ylisstol to make the journey northwards.

As for _her_?

He clutches the letter and it creases in his hand. There is a sudden twinging in his chest, right above his left breast.

"You didn't answer my question, Father."

"Oh—well, yes. The story is true in a sense. But it's not really a story, you see, it's an account of Naga's work."

"Is it by one of the saints?"

Chrom pauses; he could say yes, but that would be an untruth. "No, it's a more esoteric personal account. I'll let you read it later."

"Nah, that's okay. I have a bunch of stuff to read already! Anyway, I should probably get on that soon. I still have a bunch of studying to do."

"That sounds like a good idea. You are going to get all your exercises done tonight, right, Morgan?"

Grinning wide, Morgan says that he absolutely will, and leaves. Chrom lingers for a few moments in the chapel. He absently observes the interspersed roundel windows on the western side of the building. They are stained glass, with symmetrical patterns of yellow foliage and red berries. Though the colour of the berries is impossible to make out now, he can easily recall their exact hue. In his mind he sees a shade that is not quite crimson but richer than sanguine. Between these smaller windows are larger ones depicting riotously complex scenes from humanity's wars with the dragons.

He doesn't know what to believe. He has experienced incontestable rewards for faith in the past, but he could also trace each and every gain to efforts and deeds and sacrifices made by many people. So what they had received had been laboured-for products. He thinks that he is grateful to everyone who has helped him, and he means it. And though Naga may have helped him tremendously, he had not been granted something for nothing. He had led that army. He had gone through that trial. He had suffered.

So now what?

He gets down on his knees, he bows his head humbly. He closes his eyes.

Within himself he sees his faith. A singular thing, a lambent thing, a thing he has always found value in having. Now he reaches for it and holds it.

How could he have not understood this vital need to nurture it? There is a constant stream of daily and mundane thoughts that always wear at it. No matter how solid his faith it is, it is still subject to being worn away. Even zephyrs could wear down mountains, given enough time.

_I'm sorry, _he thinks, as the pain in his heart falls quiet.

He stays down for a while.


	3. iv

**AN**: So, here is the fourth part! I have had this written out for a few days now, but I had a really hard time motivating myself to get around to typing it up. (It was something like 18 pages and two hours for the initial first draft what, plus I have come down with mono.) Anyway, I am not calling this the "final" final part because I also wrote out an epilogue. However I am not sure it is a good idea to include it? I kind of like the original ending I had in mind. It seems more rewarding and honest because you know what is ultimately going to happen in canon...and the epilogue I wrote is more a re-imagining of the ending than anything. The same stuff happens, but rather than basing it on the recycled CGI I wrote something that's more nebulous. Though it remains a scenario that can only happen in a fictional universe, so. Thoughts?

Regardless, I hope that you enjoy this part and have enjoyed this story! I am going to turn my attention now back to finishing _And the rest_ in addition to a chaptered story I have planned and started on. I would also like to try oneshots for other pairings, but we'll see about that. Once I get attached to certain characters, I have a hard time letting them go until I have exhausted them.

* * *

Above them, a falcon cries out triumphant. Then it dips and dives, and into the trees it disappears, behind a row of breeze-bothered poplars it goes. These trees line a bank near a pond. The surface of the small pond is just as harried by the wind—no swans can be seen, just the sun coruscating on the crests of momentary waves.

Morgan, whose falcon has gone after something, smiles triumphant too. He is several steps ahead of Chrom.

"Nyna is definitely going to get something! She really looked focussed that time!" Morgan declares.

"Probably", Chrom says with a good-natured, slightly pandering, grin.

"What do you think she'll catch? A rabbit? A squirrel?"

"I don't know, but I bet it'll be some small woodland creature."

Morgan pauses a moment at that, his enthusiasm wavers. He hadn't really thought about what going falconing meant beyond spending a few hours in the company of his father outside of the castle. Morgan, who has declined to join royal hunting expeditions, has the frown of someone realising nasty truths.

But Chrom offers him an absolving shake of his head. "Don't worry. Your falcon needs to eat, too. And she needs to exercise, otherwise she will get sick. This's just a natural part of life."

Morgan doesn't nod, for Nyna comes back to him in that moment. She alights upon his leather-bound hand, ruffles her feathers, and angles her sleek head. One eye is trained on him. Morgan marvels at her, still newly beholden to her beauty. The bells on her talons tinkle.

"I guess," Morgan says. "I mean, I wouldn't want her to die. Or starve. And she should be happy, too."

"Yes, that is true."

"Or—" And here Morgan brushes his other hand along the ridge of her wing, lightly, twice. "Or, I think she should be able to try to be happy. Because she's been naturally provided with certain capacities."

"So nature is a meritocracy?" Chrom asks his son. They have stopped along the dirt footpath.

"Maybe! I don't know. Nature is nature," Morgan says. And, after a shrug of his shoulders, he sets Nyna off again. After a slight dipping motion that may be a bow, he waves to her, and turns to face his father again. "I think it is too complex to just say, 'oh, nature is definitely this or that.'"

"A very good answer, Morgan. You're getting a lot better at statescraft."

Morgan brightens as he does at every compliment—or remotely positive comment—that he receives. But his joy seems muted. He's mulling it over. In the meantime he wants to move on. He takes several steps, and soon they are walking side by side. They finally pass the pond. The water, currently unharried, shifts and shimmers lazily. The trees cast vertical green shadows on its surface.

The footpath curves to the west and then drops off before approaching a knoll. As ever, Chrom's heart speeds up several beats at the sight of wide spaces. This time of year the grass is a greenish-yellow and the wildflowers are gone, but it is the fact that is open that matters. The tall weeds are swaying and their movement ripples through him. His hand brushes against Falchion—its weight suddenly remembered.

"Ah, this is so nice, isn't it? It's been _forever_ since I've been on a good walk with you, Father."

"It's not over yet, you know."

"Yeah, but I'm just saying. So you know," Morgan adds.

Chrom comes to a stop."We ought to stand here for a bit. We don't want to get too far away from Nyna."

"Mm, sure," Morgan says with a smile. "It's a nice view, at least. I really like Under Knoll. Owain told me that there're all kinds of legendary weaponry cast off by the legendary members of House Ylisse buried there. And that one sword. Uh—Exalicub? Exalicburr?"

"That's...uh..."

"Just a myth, I know! But it's fun," Morgan says.

"That may be as it is, but —"

"But don't say it!" Morgan says with eyes that widen and a voice that cracks. Currently he is dramatic beyond even his own standards. Chrom doesn't know where this tendency towards histrionics has come from. Surely not his mother. She would have only been _this _worked up over one thing, he thinks, as he bites the inside of his bottom lip.

"I know you don't like all the mythologising about House Ylisse. But I find it interesting."

"Yes, Morgan, but I've told you before. It perpetuates—not—well—it's not bad to respect your king, but he ought not be apotheosized. Nor your queen."

"Or your exalt," Morgan adds with a grin.

"Yes."

"I get what you're saying, Father. I do. But, well...it's _your_ family! It helps me feel like I remember more about you and just not Mother. And then I feel closer to both you and everyone else like Owain and Aunt Lissa."

At that moment Chrom tries to formulate a response, but he cannot work out what he's feeling. Not quickly enough anyway, and Morgan spares him from having to answer. Probably his regret and grief aren't just apparent in his lapse, but also writ in the curve of his brow for his astute son to see.

"Don't worry! It's not your fault I can't remember anything! Blame won't bring my memories back, so I've got to just keep learning things. Maybe sometimes my memories will stop being jerks and come back to me, but otherwise why waste my time on them?"

Chrom crosses the three steps between them and ruffles Morgan's hair. Immediately Morgan rebels. He whines and tries to duck away from his father, who moves with him and faster than him and keeps up his attack. Chrom's relentless.

Finally, Morgan escapes, but with a ravaged head. He runs a hand through his fussed hair that's the exact colour of his father's, and he assesses the damage. Frowns, sticks out his tongue. His fingers get caught in a nest of knots.

"Why'd you do that! You're worse than Mother. She'd tousle my hair, sure, but only once or twice! That was aggravated assault just there."

"I just love you so much, my son. I couldn't keep it contained any longer."

"Heh, you're worse than Owain." Morgan laughs. He's still working on straightening his hair. "I'm pretty great, but that's because I've got the world's most awesome parents."

Eventually Morgan's gyrfalcon finds him. She returns to her perch on his right arm, clutching stiffly with her talons, settling her wings not. She looks at Chrom. Her liquid void eyes are fixed upon him, and her mechanical movements—the swivel of her head, the extension of her wings—give him a hazy sense of dread. He also sees himself and the world reflected in her eyes, but it is all too convex to be real.

Then her head rotates. She regards Morgan as she puffs up, almost proud. He talks sweetly and softly to her as he strokes her with two naked fingers.

Chrom looks west to the field. It is a meadow that slowly diminishes into a heath that reaches beyond the horizon. A boulder peeks above the surface of the wind-worried grass. The thin tips of the weeds, he notes, appear translucent white. He watches. And the space is devoid of human life. No hints there of an expected surprise.

"Father?"

"Yes, Morgan?" Chrom lingers a beat, but then he turns to his son and gives him nothing less than his full attention.

"I was wondering." Morgan stops, to pause. He isn't hesitating, that isn't something he does any more. He has become more measured and convicted in his thinking. Just like his father. You could even say that Morgan is meditative, now. "I was thinking, Lucina's technically first in line for the throne, even though I am older. She was born first."

"That's true," Chrom says. "Though I plan to live long enough so that this won't be a problem. You and she can figure out what you'd like to do when she's older."

"But that's the thing," Morgan says. He turns his palms up, offering. And, if he were older, he'd sound wistful. "I don't want to challenge her rights. Nor do I want there to be any doubt. So, please—may I withdraw from the line of succession? I don't want to disappoint you, and it may be selfish, but I want to do this because I think it's best for everyone. And right."

Chrom hugs Morgan. With one arm placed around his shoulders, so as to not upset the falcon. Then he says to his son, No, you never could disappoint to me.

And maybe it will be for the best in the future. No-one can really say either way.

**. . .**

Brady holds his final concerts of the summer in Ylisstol. This is his first solo tour about Ylisse—and the gentler parts of Plegia—so he has thought that there ought to be some symmetry to it. He started out in the capital, and now he's ending there. Though this time around he's also giving a semi-private recital at the royal castle. The king, who genuinely wants to hear him, cannot manage an attendance otherwise. There's been so much going on for him.

And Chrom is handling it all. He wouldn't complain about managing issues connected with the loftier ambition of managing his realm as he envisions it should be. But, recently, it isn't just Ylissean affairs he has to deal with in pursuit of this aim. A drought in Plegia has ravished this year's harvest. Already unrest has been stirred in the public mind. No king has yet been appointed, vital infrastructure has yet to be repaired. The stability of the whole country is, in a manner of speaking, precarious. And they have asked Chrom to help.

Not for help. _To_ help. They'd relied upon the assumption that he was responsible for them. Or that Ylisse would be. Their suzerain state still, while the murkier details of the treaty between them is still under scrupulous negotiation. (Plegia had settled a separate peace with Ferox Regna. That situation was much less complicated, without a tangled history of grievances, without the polemic of royal scions to discuss.)

Whatever the case, Chrom would have helped them. For it is what his sister would have done. And, all things considered, it is for the ultimate betterment of his realm.

He sighs. Currently, Chom's reclining in a heavy, carved-wood chair appropriately sumptuous for a king. There are several nobles and two or three foreign dignitaries in his midst. They talk softly, for the room is small, but also in respect for the show that is yet to begin. Maribelle, to his left, is attempting to converse in a sotto voice. But her enunciation is so righteous, her lilt so convicted, Chrom can easily hear that she is talking whether he wants to or not. It isn't genuine eavesdropping; he cannot hear a word from her conversation partner, Noire. Not that Noire is too shy to respond and isn't participating in the conversation. She's just capable of a a proper whisper.

That Noire _isn't _speechless in Maribelle's presence is still mildly surprising to Chrom. Nor does the girl suffer from her demented, raucous outbursts any longer. In fact, her blonde, officious mother-in-law has instilled in her a confidence that has dispersed the pall of her timorous fear. It isn't quite that Maribelle has made her a lady. No—Chrom has seen a similar transformation in the other displaced children who've spent time in the company of their parents. What Maribelle did was offer the unconditional love of a mother, and Noire has accepted it, and she has flourished.

Naturally, such a positive story gives Chrom cause to smile. And it's nothing personal against the girl, but—but. It may not be fair, but Noire is tangled up in his memories of her mother. What he has heard of her abuse as a child, when she was helpless—his jaw clenches at the thought of it. And, even know, a visceral call to defend roils in his stomach.

Helpless.

He had found his wife, unconscious, _helpless, _in the company of Noire's mother. It had just been a fluke that he had found her, he had needed advice about something he could have figured out himself but he'd wanted to spent time with her anyway, and he may never have known. No-one would have stopped the witch. They couldn't have. But, when discovered disrobing her captain's wife,Tharja hadn't been repentant at all. She'd said that she was merely assisting her. _Helping_ her, for Robin was deathly ill.

Chrom said that he wasn't aware of any illness. Robin had shown no ominous symptoms that morning when they'd woken up, _together_. (Such an intimate detail, one he was never prone to reveal. But now there were stakes and a case to make. A claim to lay.)

Well, Tharja'd said, he knew how these things went.

Yes, he'd said, and there was something dark brewing in his lowering voice. It was hard to mistake it. "I supposed I know what you mean," he'd added.

Tharja had seemed to be standing firm on her ground. Nonchalant, but maddeningly combative—she hadn't a titch of doubt about her right to be there. Robin had been splayed on their cot. Obviously she had been tossed there. Onto _their _cot_. _Only her cloak had been removed, but the sight of her bare shoulder had been enough to show him the lack of will in that body. How vulnerable she was.

She was a person that he needed to protect. He could not forgive this outsider's flagrant intrusion.

What Chrom had finally said was, _Leave now_. This time he spoke measuredly and without something thundering in his voice. There was no doubting it, she was being confronted.

So she left.

Immediately he had gone over to his wife. Then he'd finally begun to tremble. He took her in his arms, and he checked her over thoroughly and carefully while a stone ground around in his gut. No bruises, no marks, nothing but his suspicions. The lack of anything physical did not make him feel better, though. She indeed had a fever, but her body hadn't been warm against his. She had shivered. She breathed only shallowly and loudly at that.

He could have killed Tharja.

But he waited. After the war, he'd had her banned from Ylisstol; she was not to be seen approaching a member of the royal family. This also protected him, legally, if she ever tried anything when they visited other courts. Or when they simply travelled. Who knew what she would do? Robin's fever hadn't broke until Chrom had consulted their other dark mage, Henry. Even then it had taken several days for her to become fully aware of reality. The daze had so lingered.

Chrom doesn't regret his decision to exile the woman. He feels justified; Noire is not apparently affected. The only misgiving he does have is an issue that he really has with himself, for it is the emotional response he had had at that time on which he lingers. The purely emotional response that the incident had roused—but it's not just that incident, though, for the response rises now from the stress of the sight of her daughter—is stronger than he would like it to be. He is supposed to be an impartial, competent king. He has seen that it is not wise to be lead by passions. So many lesson along the way have been about that.

Hasn't he learnt anything?

Apparently very little, if that. He sighs and he shifts his legs. Suddenly, a quickening and a thickening, and _that_ is part of this too. Here is this primal passion connected to possessiveness—that which watches over what is _yours and only yours. _It is irrevocably tied with his private memories of Robin. She had been the first one to ever awaken this dangerous thing within him. She hadn't meant to, but she had reached into him, her presence had penetrated his person, and it had roused these unanticipated parts of him. She was the first to make him irrational with sexual desire.

On their wedding night, after the glamour of Robin's death had lifted, Chrom had taken her in his arms and hauled them up and out of the water. Then he'd placed her on the fountain's lip, helped her tug the rest of her train out too, knelt before her, and cradled her face in his hands as the water sluiced off of them. He'd run his thumb along her bottom lip.

"Your lips are blue, my love," he'd said with a voice rich with tenderness.

"Yours are, too. Maybe next time we ought to be a bit more careful."

"Heh, yes. Do you think you might...?"

"I'll warm us up and clean up after our folly," she'd said as she readied an easy fire spell. She'd closed her eyes, chanted, and kissed his knuckles as a contained conflagration sprang into being between them. The darkened world around them fell away as their pupils contracted—the sudden effulgence had been quite brilliant and alive. He'd moved his hands to hold hers, and so the the supernatural fire had burnt in their hands as a shared hope, a life.

Eventually they'd dried. She'd extinguished the flame and together they got to fooling around once more. He'd run his one hand through her hair to rest at the base of her skull, and he'd pulled her even closer. Her hands became tangled in his flowing coat. Then her focus had been forced to narrow down to their contact which was all along her body except for her helpless arms, and she'd whimpered then moaned into their kiss.

They'd separated, panting.

He'd held her gaze. There was a question in her eyes—what was to come next? But there was trust too, explicitly in him. Next was that he settled her on his lap with one of her knees on either of his sides. Reverent, he tucked a trailing tuft of hair behind her ear and placed his hand on her jaw. She'd leant into his palm.

"Perfect," he'd said.

"Mmm. You're just as good."

Then he'd lowered himself, and her, until he came to lay with the cold but smooth flagstone against his back. All the while he'd held her gaze. His hands travelled over her shoulders, down to her taut laces.

And she'd shaken. (He remembers it as having started then.)

"Robin?"

"Chrom—I—uh."

"Are you all right?"

Even in the night he could see the blush creeping across her silvery face. Her once starrified eyes were darkening.

"Yes", she'd said. "Yes. Yes. I just—your stiffness. That I'm sitting on. I wasn't aware—how it would feel."

"Oh, my love," he'd said, and just then was when he was first overcome. He had a feeling that he needed to protect her. (From what, if anything, hadn't crossed his mind.) Despite her startling capacity anywhere else, here she was adrift. So he would attentively aid her. He would take her hand, he would walk slow, he would create for her a space wherein she could feel secure. He had always had an idea that this was what love was about.

The remembrance of this time causes him physical discomfort. He's not sure how it could have gone differently, or how it should have gone so that it was better for the both of them. He's not even sure if anything _ought_ to have been different. But he's older than he was then. Right now he's also not alone. At some point Morgan has come to claim the seat to his right. Chrom can't have these thoughts with their son so close; he won't let himself.

And anyway, Brady has lain his bow on his violin's already-tuned string. Everything is prepared and poised. It's time.

.

The last piece of the concert is a description of life. Or so Chrom thinks of it, with its towering flourishes and profound low valleys. And in-between the rest of the piece is uniformly nondescript to the point where Chrom can't tell what is repetitious and what is new, but always there is an unassailable anticipation that the next bar will hold the beginning of something extraordinary. This keeps the piece from becoming monotonous.

At what must be the middle or close to it, Brady stops playing. He sits there. He's waiting for what only he knows must come next. And, as he sits there, it seems that absolutely nothing remarkable is happening. There are no meaningful gestures or posturing.

Then the musician is gripped by a vision. So strong, it drags his eyes closed and forces him to inhale heavily. And Brady resumes playing with a booming fervour that betrays his impassioned soul.

Chrom shifts as he is drawn forward by this new lyrical force. Morgan smiles at him in the periphery of his vision. The boy looks from him to Brady with wonder. Chrom notes too that Brady's wife is in even more awe, if not slightly terrified. Everyone else is at least spellbound.

Chrom's sitting there, noticing these things that are not particularly important but interesting to him nonetheless. And then an achingly spiritual passage of the music seizes him like a sudden slice through the skin that goes straight to the soul. Raising, raising, and finally wavering is the phrasing, and it evokes in him an image of twilight. Here the sun is a burnished platinum disc that floats in or above a pool of indigo and grey auroral umbras.

Then, an eclipse.

The next thing he thinks is that he has to leave the recital. Why? He doesn't know, for this isn't something that can be rationalised. It doesn't make any sense.

He has realised that he doesn't know why Robin is still out of the world. But believe, he tells himself, and await her. As though that is all it takes. Do not account for all this time and distance and banality that must be dealt with in the meantime—it would be so easy to discourage yourself.

Morgan's there with him. At his side, he holds out to his father a linen handkerchief he has procured somewhere. Chrom accepts it. He doesn't ask, doesn't look for embroidered initials or other telling embellishments.

Chrom will later think back to this moment many times. Presently he should be embarrassed—he should realise that he has walked out of a recital that he requested and that that this will have consequences. (Though he will return before it is over. Nor will the violinist ever notice his absence, absorbed as he was by more important matters.) But Chrom does not feel poorly. He does not even feel cross with himself.

Morgan says to Chrom, "It's Mother, isn't it?"

Chrom thinks without knowing why that these will be the most meaningful words anyone will ever speak to him. Compassionate, merciful, munificent, benevolent—to a king, to a father, to a person, these words are forgiveness for being selfish. They are offered before the person can process enough of their own reaction to realise that an apology is something that might be in order.

"Yes," Chrom says, and he realises then that he is weeping.

"I remember that that was one of Mother's favourite pieces."

"Well, imagine that."

And, to Chrom's unaccountable relief, Morgan doesn't ask him if he thinks Robin's not-so-metaphorical hand may be found in all of this. Chrom doesn't_ know_. He himself can't even say what Robin's favourite piece may have been. He can't remember if this is true because he's forgotten or simply never asked. This omission perturbs him for it proves a notion he has yet to willingly acknowledge. Robin has been receding from his memory, just as her presence has been irrevocably retreating from his daily live. This is a gradual process, but is it forgetfulness, or is it grief?

He doesn't know. He has other things to think about. There are other matters that require his attention.

When his tears are dried he attempts to resolve some things for himself. Whether he's waiting or not there'll still be all the inevitable crap to deal with. Things will remain the same. So can he make it easier on himself?

You'd think that he would.

**. . .**

**.**

**.**

It is Lucina's third birthday. There were showers in the morning so the ground is wet, but the sun is out now, and it glints in the fresh shrinking puddles. The marquees were set up the day before so the main festivities are still being held outside.

Lucina, who's now old enough to have and vocalise opinions on such things, says that she would rather have her party at the summer palace. (With its algae-littered fountains, its cool extensive glens, and its white and gilt panelled walls, the place is intoxicating to her vibrant imagination.) Chrom tells her maybe next year. He tells her that she will also have to take it up with the seasons. Maybe she could convince summer to come a little earlier next time, for the sake of her happiness.

This day is also brightened by the attendance of his younger sister Lissa whom he has not seen in four months. She says that she _will_ attend his birthday and her nephew's too, so at least for now the new space that had been opening up between them has been staunched. She will resume her residence in the castle at Ylisstol. (Owain and Cynthia have not shown up, though; they are still eloping. Neither of the siblings mention their absence.) Lucina—the older one—turns up unlooked for with a mild Gerome. She says this will be the first and last time pulling this, so don't worry. She won't risk imprinting her younger self with befuddling memories.

But for now she shines in a silver dress that's allegedly in style and more liberating than anything Chrom has ever seen. He's not sure if he approves of how much liberty she has given to her back, which is pale and lovely beneath the veil of her long loose hair. But, alas. He isn't going to give her grief about it, and her sprightly younger brother doesn't either. Meanwhile Gerome gladly ferries brave or shrieking or timid but curious children around the royal park.

Also in attendance are a Plegian ambassador and a new special envoy claiming authority to offer something very special, a dear deal that Plegian smallfolk voted on.

They would name Chrom as king.

They are _very_ grateful for his aid that ameliorated last year's famine. But it's more than that—his children are the scion of their last royal family. The princess is still a minor, so a regent would be required until she attained her majority. And, too, there has been a surge in believers flocking to the churches of Naga. Do they too not deserve an ordained shepherd Ylisseans are so blessed to have?

Chrom tells them that he will consider it. Earnestly. He needs to speak with his council, and seek the counsel of his heart.

But that will be later. Now he has spirited his baby girl away for a moment to give her a ride on his shoulders. From her perch she can see the whole of the field. There are trees that demarcate the edges of the royal park, but these are distant and beyond her concern and she has not learnt their names yet. The air is heavy with the scents of spring—wet earth, opening wildflowers, crisp breezes, and recollections of new beginnings.

Lucina asks him, "Father?"

"Yes, my darling?"

"Where's Mother?" There's no trace of loss in her voice, of yearning, of bereavement. She just wonders.

"That's a good question," Chrom answers. He's looking straight ahead as he walks, so he does not see the clutch of white feathers he steps on. Several adhere to his damp boots. "But she'll be back, and then you can ask her where she was."

"Why can't you tell me?"

"It's going to be a surprise."

"Like my presents?"

"Yes. Like a present."

A present. A present can be either expected or unexpected, but it is still something that is given.

Above him, Lucina is saying that she wants him to put her down right now, please. There's a blue butterfly she has to give chase to.

Chrom sometimes asks, w_here are you?, _but a pressure in his chest always reminds him that he is talking to himself. So he answers, _I am here_. And this is never wrong. Sometimes he will follow it with an adjective, _waiting. _

Beyond that, things are always a bit more complicated.


	4. epilogue

One night there is a falling star that rends the sky. It streaks so brightly, so quickly, many of the castle's nocturnal staff are drawn away from their duties and to windows where they congregate, commiserate, conjecture. The consensus is that something must have landed. They expect that they will learn the truth come morning.

Chrom awakens to silence. It is somewhere in the shallow space between midnight and dawn— moonlight no longer lays across his walls. But he is more alive now than he has felt in a long time. He inhales. He is acutely aware of the air coming in, going down, down to his lungs, before branching off into hundreds of hundreds of precious passages like filigrees. He is alive, and his chest is curiously light. As though emptied, unburdened at last. There was something lost in his sleep.

Then, unbidden, a certainty wells within him. So great a flood, so grand a sensation. As though something has been unblocked, and he is now his own conviction.

He dresses and slips past his stewards. On the way to somewhere he stops to check in on his sleeping daughter, who has long since outgrown the baby cot constructed by her parents, who lies now with her head partially covered by drawn-up sheets and her hair spread messily about her. He waves to her. His hand, an extension of his elated experience, is almost too pallid to be real.

There's no shift in focus. None of the guards think to question him and his assurance. He lets the tugging inexorably guide him for several kilometres once he's out of the castle. He goes on and on through the night air. The footpath travelled has gone from flagstone to gravel to gritty dirt that's overgrown.

He's closer, close.

The path underfoot is now completely obliterated by natural growth. So he walks through the feral weeds—spindly, bushy, and tall alike. They are no match for his sure stride and leather boots worn comfortably in from sparring.

He does not see any other footprints. But, a metre off, there is something that has dented and flattened a portion of the grass. As he expected there are no signs of a smoking, smouldering aerolite.

Instead, he takes seven steps, and here is a living body. Of small stature, dressed in a gown that's light, that could be white or grey or silver or lilac or any other colour that can appear pearlescent. It's sleeves are pinned back and sloping from her nearly bare shoulders. The hair—long, unembellished—is a shade that shines. Around her neck is tied a thin velvet ribbon, and it's this detail that's piquant and therefore make him notice. She appears exactly how he would like to remember her, how he remembers her being clothed on a day before their marriage. So he blushes a bit and his blood quickens. How embarrassing, to be so confronted by his private image of her. As though suddenly a trivial but tighly-held personal secret has been revealed.

He's easily over it. Maybe later he will dress up for her. She'd even get to pick.

"There're are better places to sleep than on the ground, you know," Chrom says to Robin.

She opens her eyes. "I'm not sleeping, you know."

"Is that right?"

"I _was _sleeping for a long time. But then you did something, or there was something about you, and I finally awoke here, where I've been thinking about how I really ought to catch up on my astronomy. I was trying to memorise constellations, and then you showed up. So, good evening."

"I think it's closer to morning now. Closer than yesterday, at least."

"Oh, well. Forgive me my mistake."

"What do you have to apologise to me for?"

She smiles beguiling up at him.

He leans over, he reaches out his hand. She accepts his offer, she reaches out and gives him hers, and then she notices what he already knows—the back of her left hand is remarkable. There's nothing but unblemished skin.

So instead of allowing him to help her hoist herself up, she pulls him down. Together they lie in the grass and laugh. When tranquillity settles again they are smiling and gazing at one another.

He cradles her face as he says, "you're home." He slips his fingers behind her ear.

"Not quite yet, technically. But I always knew that I would find you."

"Huh? I believe I'm the one who found you, here."

But she shakes her head, before she nuzzles into his touch. To him she feels impossibly warm.

"Do you know where I was?" she asks eventually.

He says no. He did not. Not even a good suspicion if he's being honest.

"I was in your heart."

"Poetic," he teases, lovingly.

"I'm being serious!"

"Um. Does that...how is that...?"

"No, I don't think it makes any sense Nor does it have to, because I _know_ I was there. I was surrounded by your heartbeat. It was quite strange, because, well—I just knew it was yours even though it was dark and I couldn't see anything. But then I don't think I could've seen anything since I didn't have a body. Anyway—I was sleeping most of the time. But other times, sometimes, _you _were there with me even though I was lost.

"I felt you. At those times I knew that things would be okay, so I always went back to sleep. And now look! Here I am, with you."

Wrapped in her easy and diffuse joy, Chrom says to her, "Yes." Before he had an idea that this meeting was a case of serendipity, that she had returned and he had simply walked to the right place. But now the connection is obvious to him. This isn't fate but something so much more profound. He thinks of how good having faith can be. "Welcome home."

Then she shifts, and her crisp gown rustles against the scabrous grass. She sits up, nudges Chrom over to her, and props his head in the shelter of her lap. Her face suddenly commands in his view of the firmament. Her face is to him a heavenly thing illumined by constant love, and her hair is her corona.

She points above them. "Is that one Lady Naga?"

"Yes. And that's Marth over there. And Lady Tiki is—yes, you've got it, just travel two stars to the right and go down a little."

She said, "tell me their story."

"It's not a happy one."

But was it a good one?

All things considered, Chrom supposed that it was. So he told it to her. Then there was another tale, about a couple more humoursly-fated, that he told in a slightly teasing, slightly titillating manner, and at the punchline he rolled up and kissed her once. As they parted, her hand lingered on his elbow until he drew her closer to him.

Afterwards he told her all about what she had missed—that the kids and the realms were all right, things were okay, though now they would certainly do better. The sun began to bleed into the world. Warmth and light took hold. And with them came a glint into her eyes. Unexpectedly, at that moment, at dawn, Chrom was sure that she was with him.

His search had come to an end.

**slutt**

**. . .**

* * *

AN: So this is the epilogue I came up with on a romantic whim. I didn't include anything else because I felt that this was a moment for them. Then, after the feedback I got, I decided that maybe I should expand it...and then the scene started getting so long that it totally destroyed the balance that I felt when I wrote this epilogue. So, tl;dr, I am going to write a sequel to this because there are still a lot of loose ends to tie up and plus I suddenly have a lot of ideas about what could be established in this universe. So, look forward to that!

Also, as a sidenote, I decided that I am going to say that I am on tumblr, if you'd like to find me there? My username is glaceaerolite.


End file.
